The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  When Miri felt the wind in her face her fears and worries vanished.

  You are born to the Breath, Miri, her uncle always said.

  The Breath held no terrors for her.

  She was once more at the helm.

  20

  The answer was always there.

  —Father Jacob Northrop

  Henry Wallace arrived at Simon Yates’ fantastical floating house to find Alan Northrop and Dubois seated at Simon’s desk. The men were up to their elbows in gazettes, missives, dispatches, and reports. Mr. Albright silently took Henry’s greatcoat and tricorn, hung them in a closet, then silently returned to his corner.

  “Any luck?” Henry asked.

  Dubois shook his head and flicked open another gazette. Alan flung himself back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

  “My agents, your agents, Simon’s agents, Monsieur Dubois’s agents—all of them scouring Haever for this Eiddwen and her lover with no result. Admittedly we are hampered by the fact that we have not been able to give our agents any information beyond a vague description of Eiddwen and her young man, both of whom are undoubtedly disguised and have probably separated.”

  “Do you think we are wrong in pursuing this course of action, Simon?” Henry asked.

  “No,” Simon said shortly.

  Henry coughed. Simon looked up to see them all gazing at him expectantly.

  “The two of them will turn up. There has to be an explanation for the constructs on the boulders. Speaking of which, another boulder has appeared along the same trajectory I plotted. Another sighting of more Bottom Dwellers.”

  “We should have had agents there, waiting for them. Have the fiends arrested,” said Alan irritably.

  “We discussed this, Alan,” said Henry patiently. “Eiddwen would hear, realize we were on her trail, and burrow deeper in her hole. We would never find her. If she believes we are living in blissful ignorance, she might grow careless and make a mistake.”

  Alan bounced up out of his chair and began to pace about the room. Simon raised an eyebrow and glanced at Henry. They both knew what was bothering their friend; it was only a matter of time before he let it out.

  “I don’t see why the devil we need Jacob!” Alan said angrily.

  Henry and Simon smiled.

  “Because, Captain, the danger to your country is posed by the contramagic,” Dubois answered in his perpetually mild tones. “Your brother has studied such magic. He is the only one who has studied it, and the only one who will know how to deal with these bombs.”

  Alan glowered. “I need a drink. Does anyone else need a drink?”

  He uncorked the aquavit, poured himself a tumbler and drank it down in a gulp. Henry reached into his pocket and drew out a document sealed with golden wax and adorned with purple ribbon.

  “Speaking of Jacob, I have Her Majesty’s writ sealed with the queen’s signet ring.” He regarded it admiringly. “An excellent forgery if I do say so myself.”

  “And I have the grand bishop’s authorization of safe passage for Sir Henry,” said Dubois. “This is not a forgery.”

  He drew out the paper and waved it gently in the air.

  “Montagne would like nothing more than to see Henry dangling from a noose,” said Alan, scowling. “This is a trap.”

  “No, it isn’t, Alan. I’m bringing Montagne his heart’s desire. He would give the Evil One himself safe passage to have what I’m going to bring him,” said Henry with a chuckle.

  Alan poured himself another drink.

  “Did you tell the queen about our theory?” Simon asked.

  “I did,” said Henry. “Her Majesty was disturbed, of course, and more angry than frightened. I endeavored to persuade her to leave Haever, travel to a place of safety. She refused, saying she would not do anything so cowardly. She did send the crown prince on holiday to the mountains. He had been ill lately. She is telling people he requires pure mountain air.”

  “What about your wife and child?” Alan asked.

  “Mr. Sloan is taking them to Woostenbroke,” Henry replied. “I thought that would be the safest place.”

  He fell silent, his expression dark. No one spoke. They were all thinking that if this plot to break off part of the continental shelf succeeded, there was no telling what might happen. The resultant shockwaves could spread death and disaster throughout Freya. No place would be truly safe.

  Their gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Sloan. He entered with his customary grave and solemn mien, bearing a large parcel wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm.

  “I have obtained the griffins, my lord,” Mr. Sloan reported. “Admiral Baker loaned us those used by naval couriers. They are admirable beasts, sir. Fast and extremely well trained. Admiral Baker sends his regards. He regrets the fact that he is still laid up in his bed or he would come himself.”

  “How is old Randolph?” Alan asked. “Are his wounds healing?”

  “The admiral is in an extremely bad mood, sir. The physicians tell me that is a good sign. He has sent orders to the fleet as you suggested, my lord. They will be deployed around the Freyan coast. He thinks, as you do, that if the Bottom Dwellers succeed in causing their planned destruction, they will take advantage of the chaos to attack.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Sloan. What about the luggage?”

  “I retrieved the valises with the false bottoms from storage. I packed your court clothes and traveling clothes in the top. The monks’ robes are hidden in the false bottoms, along with the weapons and directions for their assembly.”

  “Well done, as always, Mr. Sloan. What is in the parcel?”

  “Captain Northrop’s disguise, my lord.” Mr. Sloan undid the parcel to reveal the somber clothes of a gentleman’s gentleman.

  Henry grinned at Alan. “Mind you look sharp, my man. I won’t have my servant disgracing me in front of the grand bishop.”

  “By God, I think you’re enjoying this, Henry,” said Alan in an accusatory tone. “We’re flying into the hangman’s noose.”

  “His Eminence has granted Henry safe passage. As his manservant, you will be safe, as well,” said Dubois soothingly. “No one knows you by sight, Captain.”

  “Except, of course, my brother the traitor!” Alan muttered. He picked up the parcel and stomped off to change clothes.

  “You look worried, Mr. Sloan,” observed Henry.

  “I endeavored to give Captain Northrop instruction on the proper behavior of a gentleman’s gentleman, but I fear he is not taking this role seriously, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, sounding aggrieved.

  “Alan will rise to the occasion,” Henry replied. “He always does. Are the arrangements complete in regard to my family?”

  “They are, my lord. I have hired a wyvern-drawn coach, plain, no markings. We will be staying with your wife’s cousin, Lord Kerrington, at his hunting lodge.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “Make certain that you are not followed. But, of course, you know that.”

  “Indeed, my lord. You can trust me completely.”

  “I know I can.” Henry reached out to clasp Mr. Sloan’s hand. “Godspeed, Franklin. Keep my family safe!”

  “I will, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan in a low tone expressive of his emotion. “God go with you and Captain Northrop and with you, Monsieur Dubois.”

  Mr. Sloan departed. Henry took a turn about the room to regain his composure, wipe his nose, and blink away the moisture in his eyes. Simon watched his friend with affectionate concern.

  Alan returned, attired in the somber, yet fashionable livery worn by those who served in noble households. This included a curled and powdered wig.

  “Your wish is my command, my lord,” Alan said with a sweeping bow that sent his wig flying off his head.

  Henry was glad Mr. Sloan had departed.

  Alan picked up the wig and plopped it on backward, with the pigtail hanging down over his nose. Shaking his head at the antics of his friend, Henry plucked off Alan’s wig and threw
it in the trash.

  “I think we can dispense with this part of the disguise, Mr. North,” said Henry, using the name they had chosen for Captain Northrop. “Simon, all we need now are the lock picks.”

  “I have better than picks,” said Simon proudly. “I have keys. Monsieur Dubois was able to provide me with a detailed accounting of the locks on the cell doors. That man’s mind is amazing, Henry. He even drew pictures! I was able to determine the type of lock and obtained keys that should fit it. You will encounter magical locks, as well. I have no way of knowing what those might be, but I have included some constructs that could help.”

  He handed a velvet pouch containing the keys and several papers covered with drawings to Alan, who tucked them into an inner pocket of his coat.

  “Everything else you need you will find in the valise,” said Simon.

  Dubois had been staying with Simon the last two days. He went off to fetch his valise and returned wearing his cloak and hat, his valise in hand. He set the valise on the floor to shake hands with Simon and thank him for his hospitality.

  Henry looked around at his friends. “If there is nothing further to discuss, we should depart. Time is of the essence.”

  “I will have my agents keep searching for Eiddwen,” said Simon.

  “If they find her, they are to do nothing,” Henry cautioned. “Just set a watch on her.”

  “Understood. They have their orders. I’ll be here when you return. Good luck.”

  “Good luck to us all,” said Henry.

  He pointed to Dubois’s valise on the floor.

  “Mr. North, why are you just standing there? Carry the gentleman’s luggage. Really, my man, you should know your duties without me having to tell you.”

  “I beg pardon, my lord,” said Alan, groveling. “Forgive me, my lord. It won’t happen again, my lord. You’re a son of a bitch, my lord.”

  He picked up the valise and threw it at Henry, who ducked just in time. Laughing, the men grabbed the valises and stowed them in the carriage.

  “Here we go,” said Alan, settling into his seat. “We are saving the Rosians the time and trouble of capturing us by walking right into one of their prison cells.” He nudged Dubois in his waistcoat. “Isn’t that right, monsieur?”

  “You will have your little jest, Captain,” said Dubois mildly.

  * * *

  Inside his own prison cell in the Citadel, Father Jacob sat on his cot in the darkness, staring down at the stone floor. He had drawn six blue sigils—the six ancient, basic magic sigils. The sigils glowed with a faint light.

  In the bunk in the adjacent cell, Sir Ander snored. He had long ago learned to sleep during Father Jacob’s experiments. The master had taken on the duty of guarding them at night. He sat on the stool by the door, as silent and unmoving as the stone walls behind him.

  When Father Jacob bent down to draw six more sigils, the mirror opposite of the first six, the contramagic sigils began to glow with a green light. As he watched, the green glow spread to the blue, eating away at it until the blue glow faded and died.

  “The roed and the raeg,” he muttered and shook his head in frustration.

  He had advanced far with his studies into contramagic. He could now create a contramagic construct. Nothing complicated—a simple construct such as might be taught to child crafters. He drew six more magic sigils and six more contramagic sigils in a different arrangement. Again the green glow of the contramagic extinguished the blue.

  “So, I’ve proven that,” Father Jacob muttered. “Now let’s see what happens when I add this.”

  This time he drew seven sigils. The contramagic sigils glowed. The seventh sigil, the strange sigil that was unlike any sigil Father Jacob had ever seen, remained dark. What was he doing wrong?

  “Magic is the voice of God,” said Father Jacob, talking out loud, yet softly so as not to wake Sir Ander or disturb the meditations of the master. “Sigils and constructs allow us to interact with God, to use His creation for our own purposes. We have long known that contramagic exists, simply because science reveals to us that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The church denies such a rational explanation, claiming that contramagic is evil because it is destructive, and therefore contramagic does not come from God, but from the Evil One.”

  Father Jacob began to pace about his cell, still talking to himself. “Let us say science is right. God holds contramagic in one hand and magic in the other, both of them divine. The roed and the raeg are both present in the bodies of dragons. They maintain the magic and contramagic in delicate balance. That is why their magic is so powerful—

  “Powerful magic … Perhaps all of us have contramagic in our bodies…” said Father Jacob. He stopped walking to consider this notion. “Perhaps this was the discovery Saint Marie made with the help of the dragons. She and her friends learned how to use both in harmony, so that one would not destroy the other.”

  The image of God holding magic in one hand and contramagic in the other lingered in his mind. Father Jacob had gone to God with this problem on a nightly basis, making it the subject of prayer, discussion and, it must be admitted, frustrated harangues. Father Jacob had the feeling God was frustrated with him.

  “I gave you a mind for a reason,” God shouted. “Use it!”

  “‘How would a creator reveal Himself but through His creation,’” Father Jacob murmured, quoting words Saint Marie had written. “‘For His invisible attributes, namely, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.’”

  He got down on his knees and drew the seventh sigil by itself. God with magic in one hand and contramagic in the other, science proving that every action had an opposite and equal reaction …

  Father Jacob sat back on his heels.

  “I have been a fool. We have all been fools. Heavenly Father forgive us, if You can.”

  Once more he drew the six basic magic sigils, but this time he formed them in a half circle. He completed the circle with the six basic contramagic sigils—mirror opposites. Then in a trembling hand, he drew the seventh sigil in the center. Only he reversed it, drew it upside down—the mirror image.

  Green light shone brightly. Blue light shone brightly. He waited a moment for the usual reaction. Both shone brightly. Neither dimmed or faded or warred with the other.

  “What’s going on?” Sir Ander asked sleepily. He propped himself up on his elbow, holding his hand over his eyes to block out the light. “You haven’t set yourself on fire again, have you?”

  “No, my friend,” said Father Jacob softly. “All is well. Go back to sleep.”

  Grumbling, Sir Ander pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over.

  Father Jacob remained on his knees gazing at the blue green light for a long, long time. Hearing a faint stirring, he raised his head to find the master gazing at him. The green and blue glittered in his eyes.

  “The seventh sigil is God,” said Father Jacob.

  21

  We met in university and became friends due to the accident of our births, having all been born second sons. Henry was the coolheaded schemer, Randolph the stalwart heart of oak, Alan the daring charmer. I was the brains. We made a damn good team. Still do.

  —Simon Yates

  Sir Ander woke from a restless sleep to find Father Jacob sitting pensive and silent on his cot, his elbows on his knees, his arms hanging limp. Sir Ander knew the signs. The priest’s thoughts were roving far from his prison cell. Looking around at the stone walls, iron bars, and chamber pot, Sir Ander envied him.

  He performed his morning ablutions and then began his daily exercise routine. He sometimes wondered dispiritedly why he bothered when all he did was lie on his cot all day.

  A fit body equals a fit mind, or so his drill master had dinned into him.

  Sir Ander started with knee bends and lunges, did a few rounds of shadowboxing, and then practiced his fencing with an imaginary r
apier. All the while he was under constant scrutiny from the master, who never looked at him, but was always watching him.

  His routine ended with the arrival of breakfast and the changing of the guard. The master departed and another monk took his place, carrying their meals on trays. The prisoners did not have to subsist on bread and water. They were given the same excellent food that was served to everyone else in the Citadel.

  Sir Ander watched as a monk opened Father Jacob’s cell door and placed the tray on a desk. The monks of Saint Klee did not engage in idle chitchat or pleasantries, but Father Jacob always greeted them with an annoyingly cheery “Good morning,” and today, when he did not speak or even seem to notice the monk’s arrival, the monk paused to regard the priest with concern.

  “Father Jacob, are you well?” said the monk, the first time the woman had ever spoken to him.

  Father Jacob gave no sign he had heard.

  Sir Ander began to grow concerned. Father Jacob was an early riser and generally at this time of day he was crawling about on the floor, working with his constructs, spouting theories on magic that gave Sir Ander a headache or watching Sir Ander exercise and making cutting remarks about the knight’s lack of skill at boxing.

  The monk brought Sir Ander’s tray, which she set down on the desk. She cast a questioning glance at the priest, as if to ask Sir Ander what was wrong with him.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Sister,” said Sir Ander.

  The monk left, shutting and locking the cell door behind her. The guardian monk sat on the stool, silent and watchful.

  Sir Ander recalled a bright light coming from Father Jacob’s cell in the middle of the night. He vaguely remembered asking Father Jacob about it and being told to go back to sleep.

  “Father, what the devil were you doing last night?”

  Father Jacob made no response.

  Sir Ander shook his head and began to eat his breakfast. Some time later, when the monk came to remove the breakfast trays, she noticed that Father Jacob had not touched his. He didn’t even seem to be aware it was there. The monk raised an eyebrow.